^> +** .1 *r* • ■f Vr * «r » ir»\ %, l j&L 1987 jS ""^f^v^ Photo b The Gleaner established 1901 Delaware Valley College of Science and Agriculture Doylestown, Pennsylvania 18901 Spring 1987 Editor & Chief Melissa Brangan Editor Grace Wells Staff Barbara Kranzel Kay Lobaugh Fay Lobaugh Betsy Hague Cover Photo Melissa Brangan Literary Work Beth Bevins Art Hingst Drs. Adelle and Richard Ziemer Melanie O'Neill Barbara Kranzel Colleen Callahan Bill Benner Melissa Brangan Photographs Kris Iandola Maggie Ellis Melissa Brangan John Litzke Artwork C. Dalton Laura Etzweiler D. Mount Melissa Brangan The Gleaner is a student publication. Those opinions expressed within are not necessarily those of The Gleaner editors. Neither the college nor the editors will assume responsibility for plagarism unknowingly occurring within. Artwork by K. Dalton What is Beauty? Beauty is the things that touch deep within the heart. Like a rainbow after a storm, The velvety petals of a single rose, The scream of a newborn baby, Watching the sunset with a special friend, Looking into the sky on a moonlit night and seeing a falling star, Or hearing a love song when you're lonely. But most of all beauty is when someone likes you just for you. Beth Bevins Me, Myself and I Two friends I have, as they have too, Do never call each other "you, " Save times of self-inflicted pain, And moments when we're feeling vain. We're with each other every day, So rarely have we much to say, Yet news to me is news to three, Vice Versa too, inherently. Our interests are identical; Our dislikes are the same as well; Our looks and manners quite the same; No difference is there in our names. We often walk through fields at night; Dark forests also with delight, And pilot solo through the sky, To watch below as clouds go by. We've traveled places far and wide, And twixt us not a secret hides. No closer friends are there on Earth, Than we, who have been friends since birth. Throughout our life we've ever known, That never would we be alone, Whilst in such friends we do believe, Or so it is as we perceive. These friends I have, likewise have you; Like mine, yours are unique to you. They are forever by your side, Or deep within where they reside. Ever happy, never content, Whereto we've coursed, we're glad we went. As one we live; so shall we die, As best friends: me, myself and I. Art Hingst Photo by Kris Iandola Photo by Kris Iandola Photo by Maggie Ellis Photo by Melissa Brangan A Gift of Life After eight years of childless marriage and of two professional careers, folks quit asking, 'Are you planning to have children?" Even though we both were over thirty-five years old, we had not ruled out having children; we just put it off as it was easy to do so. But when Adelle received a professional leave to pursue a doctorate, our own little miracle of pregnancy began. Because it was Thanksgiving before the doctor confirmed it, we decided not to say anything until Christmas. "Do not open 'til Christmas" was a difficult maxim to keep, but our news made a terrific present for Adelle's nearby parents. Having no appropriate package or wrapping or, moreover, contents to show for ourselves except glee, we gift-wrapped a small toy teddy bear holding a birth announcement. After the gift was opened and the initial shock disappeared from Pop's face, he began seriously to prepare for this new "granddaughter. " We both wanted a girl and were sure we would not be disappointed. Pop and Mom took a spring trip to Florida, where they bought a flattering maternity dress — the only one Adelle has ever owned. Easter fell in April that year and at a delicious turkey dinner the subject of Adelle's superb cooking was eclipsed with talk of the arrival of our daughter on July 12th. (Adelle's calculations in statistics class that semester proved more accurate than the doctor's.) When the subject of "her" name came up, Pop tossed out his own name, (Forrest Peters Yeakelj, as this "grandson" could be his namesake too. "You've got to think how much money that name's goin' to bring him," he cajoled. "Oh Daddy, " replied Adelle, "we're expecting a girl and Richard has settled on reversing my name to spell Elleda and adding Mother's name Claire. " No matter what the name, Pop was emotionally in high gear and curtailed some of his appointments for the summer, because "We're goin' to enjoy this grandchild we thought we'd never have," he said. Although his high blood pressure and weight imposed a burden on him, he still planned one last fishing trip before our "blessed event." But after fishing was over, he returned home and fatally collapsed. At his viewing on Father's Day Adelle wore that one maternity dress. Stunned by unex- pected sorrow, we patched up our emotions for July 12th and finished our summer school courses. The ribbon on our real present was now somewhat unraveled. Making one last visit to the obstetrician July 11th, we learned that we had to wait a day longer. We addressed birth announcements until evening, and then made our midnight ride to the hospital. At 8:26 the next morning Elleda Claire Ziemer was born. "You have your princess, " said the obstetrician. Although one month late for Pop, Elleda was providentially on time for Mom, many of whose following days and evenings were spent at our place enjoying her long- awaited Christmas present. If we could have ordered Elleda with all possible op- tions, we could not have been more pleased. She's one gift never to be exchanged for cash, credit or replacement. One of her most frequently repeated requests was, "Mommy, tonight do I get to sleep at my Grammy's place?" That active love rela- tionship has proved to be our gift of life and brings joy to her widowed grandmother year after year. Drs. Adelle and Richard Ziemer Little girl come out of your shell Don't be afraid of the world around you Hold your head up high and reach for the stars Don't ever let your dreams and ambitions die Make your own decisions, choose your own friends For only you know what you want Believe in yourself no matter what anyone tells you Because to make it in this world you have to be strong No matter how bad things look. Beth Bevins Photo by Kris Iandola Photo by John Litzke Why? Tears are cried because of happiness sadness confusion disappointment and relief. My tears are cried for all these reasons As you can see my feelings are a real mess My only problem now is finding out why. Maybe I'm in love. Beth Bevins Photo by Maggie Ellis Senility What does he think of in the early dawn, as he pads across the lawn? He cannot remember yesterday, nor this morning in that way. Does he think of days past as he walks across the grass? When he was young and there were still songs to be sung? Does he enjoy life, or is it just a daily strife, Is it only waking and eating just to keep being? Does he know death is near? Does he fear? Melanie O'Neill A Love Story Charlie and Elizabeth had been together for four years. They lived in an old farmhouse that was left to Elizabeth after her parents died. Elizabeth worked in town about ten miles away and Charlie stayed at home and looked over the farm. They had a quiet and comfortable relationship and respected each others differences. One warm night in August while Elizabeth was making dinner she mentioned that she had met a very nice graphic artist that her company had hired to do some print work for them. Charlie responded with a yawn and continued eating his dinner. A week later over dinner Elizabeth told Charlie that she had invited Mark, the nice graphic artist, over to eat dinner with them since he was new to the area and didn't know many people. Charlie heard what Elizabeth had said but just continued eating. In his heart he felt a pang of jealousy. On the day Mark came to dinner Charlie pretended he didn't feel well and went upstairs to lay down, he really didn't like company. Upstairs Charlie could smell the wonderful odor of Elizabeth's chicken but he lost his appetite when he heard the laughing downstairs. Even as Elizabeth snuggled against him in her sleep that night Charlie still felt very uneasy. Over the next few months Mark came over to the house more frequently. Charlie was polite, but did not show any form of friendship towards him. Elizabeth didn't seem to notice Charlie's behavior, she was obviously delighted with Mark's visits. Then the inevitable happened; Charlie came home late one evening from the fields and looked up to the house. There in the window were Elizabeth and Mark locked in each other's arms. Charlie stood for a few moments and then just started walking out toward the road, his heart breaking. A sharp knocking came at Elizabeth's door. She gathered it was a truck driver since she saw the 18-wheeler parked just outside her driveway. "Uh, Miss, " he began, "I'm afraid something's happened ..." Guessing what had happened she gasped and dashed out to the road. There he was just a few feet away from the driveway. She bent over Charlie's wracked body her tears dripping on his face. Elizabeth felt a hand on her shoulder, it was Mark. She turned to him and said, "I can't believe he's gone. I loved him so much. I've had him since he was a kitten." Betsy Hague Self-image You say you like me, trust me, care about me and understand me And I ask you, "How and Why?" How can anyone like me when I hate myself. Why all of a sudden does somebody care? Beth Bevins Artwork by D. Mount f t * Photo by Kris landola Destiny Taking cover. Hiding in the brush. The endless shots piercing my ears as the blood splatters around me. Soldiers beside me, intent on the living targets, shoot, just as I too shoot. Shoot to kill! I can feel the thunder in the ground. I smell the putrid stench of blood that makes everything reek of death. I think of the end! Fear takes a grasp at my soul. Hate pours from within me. Lasting hate! Then I see her, her fragile body in the midst of this bloody war, so alone and set apart from all other things. The look on her face is of terror. Terror so vividly portrayed that I know instantly nothing else matters to me but this child. I'm running. I hear the shouts behind me. "No, no, you fool, you'll be killed!" I block them out. I see her small tear-streaked face, and those eyes of soft brown meet mine. They look deep into me and plead to me. I'm almost there. She's just beyond my reach. Only ten more feet to go. No! I lose her glance. My mind goes numb. A flash of pain. I look up but all to be seen is the earth exploding and her body with it. Within the smoke and the flying shards of bloody and fiery red, I can still see her eyes. "No! No!, " I scream, but it's too late. Too late for her and for me. No! Why does it have to end this way? I open my eyes and see the white room about me. I hear the consoling voice, "It's okay. I'm here to help you; Everything is going to be alright now ..." But, in my mind, those eyes will always be just beyond my reach. Donna E. Albert Artwork by Melissa Brangan 4 <^ Above the water, on the rocks, this is where my spirit can be free. For when I'm there I am a thing of the wild, unbound from any law — untouched by man's ideals. But soon I must return to the chains which bind my existence and threaten to crush my spirit; and so I wait 'til I can again be free. Colleen Callahan Photo by Melissa Brangan Once (it seems so long ago} I knew what I wanted. Maybe 1 was too secure, but 1 thought I had it all. How do things fall apart so easily? We shared so many things, both good and bad. You made the good times better and the rough times easier. You were always there to help me. But I ended up hurting you. And although "I never meant to, I'm sorry" doesn't help; I have to say it. I am sorry. I only can hope that you will do two things. That you will remember what we had together, and that you will remember that I will always love you. Goodbye. Colleen Callahan Photo by John Litzke A Note on War Battles can be lost or won Without that much effect, Because war will go on and on Forever, I expect. Always when the battle's won There's talk and praise of jobs well done, And always when the battle's lost They argue monetary costs. Too often tend we to forget The tragic end the soldier met, And children, who so very young, Died when their lives had just begun. "In God we trust, " we'd say with pride, We must be right, "He's on our side," But can we truly be so blind To think that God had THIS in mind? The righteousness of war is gone; The source we must disect. Till then war will go on and on Forever, I expect. Art Hingst r w Photo by Maggie Ellis Tennessee Damp, woody scents hang in the wild land. Above, and far, far above still, the leafy layers Open out upon themselves, filigreed clouds of green, Shot through by rough, massive trunks, hemlock and giant oak. Slick dewed laurel leaves gleam under A chance column of sunlight, while Water plays at a magic dance, tumbling, tumbling, And a bird flutes a clear phrase. The land exhales an ancient odor, at once clear and clean, The smell of wood, water and green gloom. Scarlet bee balm and golden daisies of tickseed sunflower Mingle, points of flame on a textured brown-and- green hillside. Sparkling, they sweep from high above, Where the blue mountaintop stands hazy through far leaves Against a bluer sky. Down in a jumbled, wild tangle, They follow the green gully and fall into the shadows below. The flowers hide the tiny brook and its measured, steady dripping; Beneath, the water slides along the stone and plinks Drop by drop into a tiny pool. Close up, ruby rays of tubular balm and the yellow disks of Sunflowers are framed against the cool ferns; A whirring rush of small sound, and a hummingbird dips into the scarlet, Red throat to red flower. Precise, controlled, flickering moth-like from sun to shadow, He hangs for a moment, perfect in a patch of golden light; Then wheels, and is gone. Thunder rambles along the ridge; dark clouds pile against the darker hills. The gloom deepens. Rapidly then, leaping closer, swiftly Tearing across the sky, tatters of shredded clouds are Pressed on by the cold hand of suddenly relentless gusts. Thick mist descends, quickly, and silver rain patters, pauses, then drums. The woods are a green swirling rush of water, earth and sky. Dreamlike, wraiths of cloud move through the tree lanes, Stately shapes against majestic pillars. A soft pattering, lingering mist, and the rain ends. Soon pale shafts of sun catch hanging, twinkling drops, And steam rises through the tangled rhododendrons. Lifting its bold black and scarlet head, a woodpecker Rattles a clear jungle call, leaps from the hemlock and Arrows swiftly up the stream. Below, the water flows sparkling in the rinsed light. Running loudly, channeled along the far bank, it undercuts A gnarled, mossy, waist-thick root, then veers to center, Seeks a slice in the rounded rock ledge, and plunges through. Bill Benner Doesn't It Figure / had an idea last December That'd help forgetful folks remember, And had another thought in May That'd make us mind the words we say. No matter now, I've lost these thoughts, And this is why I thought for naught; For when I tried to write them then, Seems I'd misplaced my #/*@*?/5* pen. Art Hingst Photo by Melissa Brangan Backyard Reflections This is good. It is late spring as I sit on the dew-laden grass watching Pip and Siri play. Pip, my half-grown kitten, is the hunter, stalking, furtive, he jumps in the air after a fly. Siri, my perfect Golden Retriever, like a clown filled with giddiness, rubs her back on a low shrub and growls with delight. When a child, my backyard was my kingdom, my ranch, my ocean. I left it behind to search for reality and reason. But today its smallness and familiarity is a comfort. I am satiated from yesterday's hard work, physically sore and emotionally drained. My goals go far beyond this yard — to challenges of bigger yards with bigger trees to climb. Yet today I find happiness here in simplicity. Do I have to ever leave? Could I accept this happiness and not always have a craving for more? Siri begs to have her ball thrown and her ears scratched; she is happy just with my company. Pip, always watching, is content to hide in the jungle, our lawn. Cherry blossoms float to the ground, landing in the grass amidst violets and dandelions. Nearby, a cardinal sings and further off another one replies. In a neighboring yard a scolded child cries. Around the yard is a fence. A good fence that makes good neighbors. It keeps Siri in when she doesn't feel like jumping it and Pip because he doesn't know the world outside it. The morning passes, the sun shows off the color of the red maple, which once served as my ship and horse. The breeze carries the fragrance of lilac and hyacinth. Pip chases Siri's tail. I move to where the sun has called back the dew. Next to me I realize is a grave. It is not forgotten, just put away in a corner of the yard. A spot of discontent, where the soil is unsettled and nothing yet grows. Woffie lies beneath in a hole where I placed his limp body. The hole was filled and covered over, but in my heart there is still a gaping wound. In the yard, Pip is bored and restless, having explored the entire yard. He climbs the fence. Uncertain of the other side, he treads precariously along the top. I call to him to come back to this side, but he is unsure. Melanie O'Neill Artwork by D. Mount Artwork by L. Etzweiler #¥■£ The Gift On a dark, windy night in late October a form slowly moved up the incline towards the cliffs. The form was Karen Fillmore, a senior at Claymont High School. Karen was the sort of girl who not too many people knew. She seemed to blend into her surroundings with ease. She liked it that way and avoided anyway of attracting attention to herself. The leaves crunched loudly under each step. Normally this would have annoyed her but she knew there was no one in the vicinity to hear her. She approached the edge of the cliff and stared out into the inky darkness. The wind began to blow harder as she stepped to the very edge of the cliff. Karen wanted to kill herself. Her father died the year before and her best friend had moved to Europe six months ago. She decided life was not worth the trouble. Truth was, she had a lot to live for. Karen was an extremely talented artist but was so shy she wouldn't submit her best work for fear of attracting too much attention to herself. Not surprisingly, her art teacher did little to encourage her. The wind swirled around her as she lifted her head to the stars for one last look as tears streamed down her face. The scene shifts . . . at that point time as we know it stopped and in another dimension a voice was heard. "This one's really a shame, she has so many thoughts to give yet. It's not her time. May I give her the gift. " Another voice was heard, "Yes, give her the gift. It seems this one certainly needs it." Karen was about to jump when she opened her eyes, looked down and had a sudden change of heart. No she couldn't do it. Another failure she thought to herself. Karen walked into her home about 10:00 PM that night. "Make sure you lock the door!, " her mother called down to her. She had no idea the turmoil her daughter had been in the last few months. Karen woke the next morning with the dreadful realization that today was Monday and she had to go to school. More than anything Karen hated school. She stayed in bed as long as possible praying that she would have a sudden attack of legionaires disease. No such luck, she washed and dressed quickly. Her first class was English with Mrs. Burton. She slipped quietly into her seat and buried her face into her English book. Mrs. Burton called the class to order and told them to be quiet and read chapter 37. At the back of the room sat Vinnie Martino, a 6'-2" , 230 lb. football player, who all the cheerleaders adored. Karen didn't adore him at all — in fact she thought he was an obnoxious beast. Today Vinnie decided he didn't feel like being quiet so instead he began talking to his friends, getting louder and louder so that none of the class could concentrate. "Mr. Martino!, " Mrs. Burton bellowed, "would you please be quiet!" Vinnie ignored this and just kept on talking. Somewhere from the class a voice was heard, "YOU GOD-DAMNED, OVERGROWN, FEEBLE-MINDED IDIOT - WHY CAN'T YOU BE QUIET!" The whole class looked up. Karen looked up and saw that everyone was staring at her. She realized that SHE had said it. Her thoughts raced trying to figure out what could have possessed her to say something like that. Mrs. Burton was the first to regain her composure. "Karen!, " she asked, "Is there something wrong?" Karen just sat there. "Karen! — we are waiting for your answer, " Mrs. Burton said more sternly. "WELL WAIT YOU OLD BAG!" Karen again realized that she had been the one who spoke and quickly grabbed her books and ran out of the room. Karen sat down in the library and tried to think — "what in God's name is happen- ing to me — I must be going insane. The things I said were my thoughts towards Vinnie and Mrs. Burton but I didn't want to say them." Karen looked at her watch and saw it was time for her next class. She began to walk down the hall towards her chemistry class. Coming towards her was Mr. Leary, the school's political science teacher. Mr. Leary was a nice enough teacher but no one took him seriously mostly because he never combed his hair and his clothes never matched. She saw him and tried to turn away but it was too late. "YOU KNOW MR. LEARY, " she began wishing she could stop herself, "IF YOU WOULD TAKE THE TIME TO WASH AND COMB YOUR HAIR IN THE MORNING AND LET SOMEONE WHO'S NOT COLOR BLIND PICK OUT YOUR CLOTHES YOU MIGHT LOOK HALFWA Y HUMAN AND GET SOME RESPECT AROUND HERE. " Mr. Leary stared at her for a moment and Karen dashed away, mortified at herself. She made it through her next few classes without any sudden outbursts. But as she was going to lunch she literally bumped head on into Clairissa Whitney. Clairissa was THE most popular girl in school and Karen just loathed her. It wasn't just the fact that she looked like a barbie doll just that she acted like one. "Oops — Hi!" Clairissa said in her usual cheery manner. On this particular day she was wearing a red leather mini-skirt with a black ripped tee-shirt, black fishnet stockings and red leather boots. Karen took one look at her and cringed. "CLAIRISSA, I HONESTLY DON'T THINK YOU COULD LOOK MORE TACKY IF YOU TRIED. " Karen began, unable to stop herself "IT'S REALLY A SHAME AN INTELLIGENT GIRL LIKE YOURSELF WOULD ACT LIKE SUCH AN AIR HEAD AND DRESS LIKE YOU WORK THE STREETS!" Clairissa gasped, Karen gasped and ran into the lunch room. "Please God," she prayed, "don't let this happen to me anymore!" But it did, all day. By the end of the school day she had told Mr. McKay that he was a real leach and should keep his hands off the female students and she told Tom Sterling that everyone in school knew he was seeing another girl behind his steady girlfriend's back and that she wished all men like him were dead. She also told Mrs. Ballam that she really enjoyed her class lectures and she told Chris Lorenz that she loved his essay and was glad he won the state competition. And so it went. For three-and-a-half years she had said nothing to these people and in just one day she had changed all of their attitudes towards her and many of their attitudes about themselves. The school bell rang at 3:30. "At last," Karen thought. She lingered a little in finishing an assignment so she wouldn't have to see anyone when she went to her locker. She got to her locker and got her coat without seeing anyone. She turned the corner to go downstairs and found herself face to face with Rich Conlin. To Karen, Rich was easily the cutest boy in school and his quiet manner made him a favorite with most of the girls. "O Lord, not again, " she thought, but it was too late, she began to speak, "YOU KNOW I'VE ALWAYS THOUGHT YOU HAVE THE MOST BEAUTIFUL BLUE EYES. " "I do?, " he asked looking slightly shocked. Then much to Karen's astonishment he began talking to her. He had noticed Karen's work in art class (it wasn't her best but it was still pretty good}. They talked for awhile and he asked her to go to a school play that Friday. She accepted the offer without any hesitation. That afternoon Karen came home and told her mother she was tired and was going to take a nap. She didn't wake up till 10:30 that night. She went downstairs to get something to eat. "Hi honey, " her mother said as Karen entered the kitchen, "you must have really been tired. I left some chicken out for you. How do you like this skirt I bought today?" Karen stopped chewing on a piece of chicken and looked up. "It's hideous, " she thought. Karen dropped her chicken. She realized that whatever had possessed her today was gone, her thoughts were private again. Karen's mother looked at her puzzled. "Well, what do you think?" Karen was silent for a moment and then smiled, "Actually Mom, " she said, "it looks hideous. It would look much better on you if it was blue. " Karen's mother looked at the skirt and told her she was absolutely right, it was the wrong color for her and she would see if she could get it in blue. The gift never returned to Karen, it was with her for only one day, but she never forgot the lesson it taught her. Betsy Hague ^ m Photo by Melissa Brangan Editors Note Being part of The Gleaner has been an enriching and inspirational experience for me this year. I am grateful to all the contributors for their hard work and effort in preparing their entries for the annual this year. Also the staff of Delaware Valley College should be commended for their input, not only in submission but in concern and assistance. I personally would like to thank the staff of The Gleaner and Barb Kranzel for all of the late night meetings and the mailing of hundreds of flyers. So now I'd like to pass the gift of The Gleaner on to you. Take a moment and read through it, appreciate the hard work so many people put into it. With that I, along with the staff of The Gleaner, present you the Spring 1987 edition. Enjoy! Sincerely, Melissa Brangan Editor and Chief Gleaner 1987 v mm «s .